


From the Outside Looking In

by gray_autumn_sky



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:08:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28392900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gray_autumn_sky/pseuds/gray_autumn_sky
Summary: Regina Mills is a journalist with something to prove. Mallory Nolan is a congressman’s wife with secrets to hide. What’ll happen with Mal inadvertently catches Regina’s attention?Set in the late 1950s.Inspired by The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo.
Relationships: Evil Queen | Regina Mills/Maleficent
Comments: 32
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

Mallory Nolan sits at a corner table at Potter's House Coffeeshop, gazing out the window, impatiently watching passerbys. Her long fingers rub at the still-warm porcelain mug, the coffee she ordered all but finished. The remnants were cold, nearly undrinkable.

She's late, she privately broods.

In truth, that wasn't entirely fair—she didn't know that anyone was waiting for her. She had no idea that every day at three-forty-five Mal, a bored Congressman's wife, wandered into this coffee shop and ordered a coffee, taking a seat with nervous anticipation, just hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

It was pathetic, Mal knew that—and yet, she'd made peace with that and accepted it for what it was. She'd always been drawn to the things she couldn't have—this was no different. It was harmless, she'd decided. Innocent, even.

But every afternoon as the minutes counted down to four o'clock, her heart would beat just a little faster, and then without fail, the bell on the door would jingle and briskly she'd stride toward the counter. She moved with an air of confidence, her shoulders squared and her head held high.

She always ordered the same thing—black coffee, to go. It was quick and easy, and allowed her to go as quickly as she came. She never stayed. She never took her up to the condiment bar to add a like cream or sugar, never lingered momentarily to admire the ever-changing art that hung for sale on the walls. There and gone, leaving with the unspoken promise of tomorrow...

Bristling, she looks away from the window, her eyes searching for the large circular clock that hangs on the opposite side of the coffee shop. It's half past four—she's not late, she tells herself, she's just not coming today.

With a heavy sigh, she stands, telling herself to not feel so rejected—after all, this woman doesn't even know that she exists, much less that she's been waiting for her. So, Mal rises from her table and slips her arm through her purse strap and slowly lifts to her shoulder, all the while keeping one eye on the door—she's delaying, holding out hope.

Pathetic, she chides.

Mustering a smile, she returns the cup to the counter, thanking the barista and offering a little wave.

"I'll see ya tomorrow, then," he calls out to her, his smile warm—he's picked up on her routine. "Three forty five, coffee—two creams, one sugar."

"Yes," she nods. "Tomorrow."

He offers a jovial wave as she turns, her smile fading as she pushes open the door, the icy winter air rushing at her, and forcing her eyes closed.

"Oh!"

She halts and straightens at the sound of a voice, her eyes flying open as she readies an apology—but as her eyes open, her mind goes blank.

It's her.

Standing only inches away.

There's an awkward moment where they both step in the same direction, then in an effort to clear the way, they both step in the opposite direction, again at the same time.

And then they laugh.

"I'm sorry," Mal says, her breath puffing out between them as she finds herself glad for the cold—it hides the flush of embarrassment from her cheeks. "I wasn't paying attention, and now I'm completely in your way."

For a moment the other woman holds her gaze—her brown eyes bright and expressive, and they narrow a bit as they take her in. "Well, today's a good day to slow me down. Nothing could spoil my mood today."

Mal nods and wonders if that's why she was late. She has a dozen questions, but can't ask a single one of them. So, she steps aside, waving a hand toward the door and grinning, giving her a free pathway to the door.

A smirk tugs up at the corner of her mouth, and she nods before proceeding forward into the coffee shop, the little bell jingling as it opens then closes behind her.

She lingers for just a moment—a heaviness washing over her. She had her moment and she missed it.


	2. Chapter 2

A smirk edges over Regina Mills' lips as she stares at the glossy photographs in hand as a rush of satisfaction overcomes her. This moment has been months in the making.

Under ordinary circumstances, seeing a photograph of her definitely-naked husband in bed with a scantily clad blonde on his lap wouldn't have had this effect. And yet, here she was.

Her sixth husband, Graham, was supposed to be the last.

Whether either of them like it or not.

They'd met a few years before when she'd been working on the Stringfellow story—a story that cemented herself into a prominent position at the Post. The story had led her to Draper, Utah—the hometown of the now-disgraced congressman she'd been investigating—and into a dank little bar where she met Graham, an off-duty cop who'd gone to high school with the congressman.

In truth, she hadn't been very interested in Graham at the time. Her focus was on Stringfellow, or rather where the story on him might get her.

It was no secret what she wanted professionally and she saw no reason to hide her ambition, so when an anonymous note arrived at the post about the congressmen's war record, she seized the opportunity that it presented.

So when she tracked Graham Humbert down in that dank little bar in Draper, Utah, her main attraction to him was his connection to Douglass Stringfellow. The fact that he was attractive was merely a bonus.

Graham had a rugged handsomeness about him—a sly smile that made his dark blue eyes sparkle and a mop of wavy brown hair that made him look younger than he was, and that complimented his boyish charm.

The night they met he'd been wearing a brown leather bomber jacket and playing darts. She'd noticed his half-empty glass of whiskey and offered to buy him another. She'd watched as his eyes lingered over her, noting the way her tight black skirt hugged every curve and how the lace of her bra peeked out from the silk button-up blouse she wore—and it was no surprise that he accepted her offer.

Together, they settled in at a little booth and she told him that she was doing a story on the congressmen—something that wasn't at all untrue—but she'd framed it as more of a human interest piece. Fluff that would be in the feature section on Saturday. Not a front-page blockbuster.

He bought the lie and she bought another round of drinks, and though Graham had been reticent at first, by the end of the night she was on his lap with a promise to talk again in the morning.

She and Graham hadn't slept together that first night, but it was clear to her that was what he wanted, so she strung him along, slowly over the course of the next two weeks, slowly pulling out bits of information as they toured the congressman's hometown and looked at basketball trophies and other mementos. She'd just been waiting for the moment that Graham said something he didn't mean to say. It was painfully boring, at times, but of course, one night over beers and between rounds of darts, Graham gave her exactly what she'd been hoping for—a clue as to how the congressman was able to embellish his war record, and the clue was better than anything she'd ever dreamed of finding. In turn, she paid for the information in full, finally allowing him to take her to bed. It was a price she'd been more than glad to pay.

After that night, Regina had simply expected to disappear, to drop out of Graham's life without as much a goodbye—and for a couple of weeks or so, it'd worked like a charm. Then the story went to print, smack-dab in the center of the front page of The Washington Post on a rainy Monday morning.

And every paper in Utah picked it up.

Within days the congressmen ended his bid for re-election deciding to quietly carry out the rest of his term before returning home to "focus on his family," and within days of that, nearly every major newspaper in the country had run her story.

Her mother even called her to inform her that everyone in her hometown was buzzing over the story. Cora Mills didn't expand on that, she didn't say what they were saying, but the fact that they were talking about her was enough—it meant she'd made a name for herself on her own. She was no longer the pretty little daughter of Henry and Cora Mills.

A few days after the story ran in Draper, Graham called her office. She expected him to be furious—she'd used him, after all—but to her surprise, he congratulated her. Apparently, he'd kept his disdain for Stringfellow to himself, and it turned out the drunken slip about the now-disgraced congressmen's record hadn't been as much of a slip as it had been an intentional statement.

That amused her.

And though there was something mildly condescending about the way he explained that he hadn't wanted to dissuade her, that he'd wondered if she'd catch on to where he was leading, she didn't care. Graham Humbert was nothing to her—just a man she'd used for her own gain, a man she'd slept with as payment for the unsavory details he'd disclosed. He wasn't the first of his kind and she was confident he wouldn't be the last.

At the end of the call, he'd made an off-hand comment about hoping to have a chance to properly congratulate her on the story should he ever find himself in her "neck of the woods." She'd laughed when he asked for her number, but given it to him anyway, never expecting him to call—after all, Utah was a world away from Washington, DC. What were the odds that their paths would cross again?

A month later, he _did_ find himself in her neck of the woods—and just as he promised he called her, and asked her to dinner. Apparently, he had an aunt who lived in Virginia. A small world, he'd teased upon that revelation.

Graham was good company.

He was a nice enough guy who filled a void she didn't like to admit was there. He reminded her of Daniel, her first husband and the one she'd long regarded as the one who got away. Even though she knew that was a lie. It really only meant of all the men she'd married, Daniel was the only one she'd actually loved.

The rest… well, they were a mixed bag, all serving a purpose, one way or another.

After Daniel, there was Leopold Blanchard. He was old and dull, lonely and his personal wealth dwarfed her parents' ample bank accounts. She laughed at his jokes and stroked his ego, and in exchange for a couple of lap dances and a blow job, he'd ensured that she was one of the few women admitted into one of the most prominent schools of journalism. She married him, letting him have his way with her whenever he wanted as long as her tuition payments were made.

The union infuriated her parents. Regina had only been nineteen at the time, but to her, at the time, it'd seemed like the deal of the century.

In retrospect, he disgusted her.

Leopold died shortly before her graduation and it'd been a relief in many ways. Jefferson became her next husband, and there were no secrets about what they wanted from each other.

In many ways, Jefferson was a palate cleanser—mysterious and handsome, an adventurous type that pushed her to try new things who was incredibly talented with his fingers and tongue. Being with him was a constant adrenaline rush, but the only thing they had in common was sex. And when he was sober, that wasn't even that good.

He wasn't the sort of man who had any interest in cleaning up and rubbing elbows with Washington's elite, and he rejected the world she'd been born into, a world that Leopold had finessed for her. Jefferson hadn't understood her ambition or her natural curiosity, and couldn't fathom why a woman of her wealth would ever want to work. By the time she met Robert Gold, she was bored of Jefferson and looking for any reason to cut him loose.

Gold was her fourth husband, and like Leopold, she wasn't at all attracted to him—but attraction wasn't what drew her to him. He was an editor at the paper—and he had a reputation that Regina found alluring.

Alluring for all the wrong reasons.

He was powerful and so he was respected. He didn't have limits, and so professionally, he was revered. He got stories that no one else would dare go for which earned him publicity that made his name nationally recognized. So, to her, he embodied everything she wanted for herself—and for a time, she thought his favor might earn her exactly that.

So she'd perused him relentlessly.

The first time they'd slept together, she was still married to Jefferson—and by the time the ink was dry on her divorce papers, romps on his gaudy mahogany desk were a regular occurrence.

Everyone in the office knew, of course, but she didn't care. Just like she didn't care that Gold was constantly embroiled in some sort of scandal.

Quickly, she went from a column giving advice on fashion choices and fun hors d'oeuvres to serve at dinner parties to a regular beat—and by the time they married, she'd gone from covering local feature type stories to more serious topics with her sights on covering Congress.

That was a lofty goal.

Only the best were given that particular beat, and it wasn't a role at the Post that one could simply be assigned. Sleeping with the Editor-in-Chief wouldn't be enough, but that was alright with her. Just as she didn't care about the other women Gold perused throughout their marriage, Gold didn't care if she had her own affairs. There was no pretense about their marriage and they never even pretended it was about love. It was about power and they both knew and accepted that.

And that had been their downfall.

Or, rather, it'd been his.

At a party, Gold introduced her to Finnegan Black, the paper's owner and the only man at the Post more powerful than himself.

Black was potentially the only man more powerful and ruthless than Gold—and while Gold could get her close to her professional goal, Black could deliver it. And, of course, she could offer him something her husband could not: sex.

Their divorce was messier than it should have been, but somehow, she'd managed to keep the upper hand. Gold was fired, and more importantly, she was offered a spot on that coveted congressional beat.

Of course, she had to earn her spot there, if she wanted to keep it.

So when that tip about Stringfellow had fallen into her lap—or rather it'd fallen off of Finnegan Black's desk—she pursued it to no avail, knowing exactly what a successful exposee on a sitting congressman would do for her. And that was where Graham came in, that was how Graham became her sixth husband.

She married him a year after they met—and the regret was immediate. The honeymoon phase didn't last for very long, and she quickly came to realize that the thing she liked most about Graham was that he lived in Utah while she lived in DC. She liked coming home after a long day and giving him a call, using him as a subjective sounding board after a bad day and letting him distract by telling her about all the naughty things he'd do to get her mind off of things if he were there with her in her apartment. She missed the sweet nothings—the little notes and flowers and candies at the office, and of course, the occasional transcontinental rendezvous in a random midwestern city. The distance made it romantic—and the distance made it bearable.

For a year or so, Graham had been blissfully unaware of her unhappiness and that had been exactly how she wanted it. Graham was supposed to be it for her—the last marriage, the companion she'd long wanted. For a time, he was easily caught up in her fast-paced world, marveling at the beautiful, historic city she lived in and in awe over the high-profile world in which she indulged. On weekends, they took trips up to New York City or warm sandy beaches in South Carolina. He accompanied her whenever she traveled for work, always waiting for her with a cocktail when she arrived back at their hotel, ready to listen as she divulged whatever information she gathered and put puzzle pieces together.

Graham should have been everything she wanted, but she was bored with him—and after a year, she could tell that feeling was mutual.

But cutting him loose wasn't an option.

He was Catholic and she had a very disapproving mother whose disdain she hoped to stave off; she was tired of being a disappointment.

Her mother had always been critical. When she was a little girl it was always nit picky little things—her hair being tangled or not earning a high enough mark on her spelling tests. But as she got older, the criticism got stronger and more personal. No longer did her mother point out little things that could easily be remedied, but instead character flaws that made her feel no more than an inch tall.

For a time, she rebelled against that, running off with the sweet stable boy who tended to the horses on her parents estate, but even then her mother's voice nagged and gnawed at her, replacing her own inner voice. Her accomplishments—both personal and professional—didn't matter, there was always something better she could have done, always a dig about how her ambitions were misplaced. To her mother, her failures always outshined her successes.

So, she'd held on for another year.

And somewhere in that year, Robin had inadvertently come up with a plan to end her marriage. At first, he'd meant it teasingly—playfully suggesting that she didn't have to be the one at fault for her next divorce. He'd said it all with a laugh one night after a few too many beers and one too many wins at poker, but she hadn't laughed. It was an obvious realization, but still, it'd hit her like a ton of bricks.

At first, she'd been skeptical that they could pull it off—Graham was practically a Boy Scout, after all—but Robin seemed confident. An opportunity just needed to present itself—and of course, it had. He'd kept the details close to the chest, but when he'd strolled into her office that morning and presented her with that scandalous photograph, it was apparent that whatever he'd done had worked like a charm.

"You know, love," Robin begins, plucking the photograph from her fingertips as he sets the cardboard cup of coffee she'd bought for him down onto her desk. "You could just… file for divorce like a normal person."

"Another failed marriage is the last thing I want."

"And yet, here you are, gleefully staring down at a photo of your most recent husband rolling around in bed with some nameless blonde."

Blinking, she looks up at him. "I'm not following." Again, she blinks, watching as he tucks the photo back into the Manila envelope he'd pulled it out of just minutes before. "You make it sound like setting him up wasn't _your_ idea."

Robin sighs, but smiles nonetheless. "I just know how you like to play with your food."

Regina's eyes roll, but she doesn't argue. He isn't wrong.

"I'm just saying, you have ample reason for divorce."

"Yes, but my mother would disagree."

"Since when have you cared what your mother thinks?"

"How long have I been drawing breath?"

A soft chuckle escapes him. "I just… this one's nice, Regina."

"This one is currently fucking some blonde in a hotel room that I likely paid for."

"I know," he murmurs, frowning a bit. "Still. He's nice."

Regina sighs, ignoring the little pang of guilt she feels. "Sure he is, but that's his problem, not mine and it's not like I'm going to ruin his life."

"No?"

"No."

There's a long pause, and she wonders if Robin isn't thinking exactly what she is, if he's not also wondering if Graham's life is already ruined. Ruined because of her.

He gave up a lot to come to DC—a job he enjoyed, friends who cared about him, the quiet of a clear conscience. But three years before, he'd been happy to leave it all behind, resolute in his decision. At the time, she'd been glad. It kept her from confronting the uncomfortable, but obvious truth that Graham loved her far more than she loved him. She wouldn't have given up anything for him.

"Look," she says, slowly drawing in a breath. "A public confrontation isn't going to break the man."

"Just humiliate him."

Her eyes narrow. "Whose side are you on?"

"Yours," he says, a soft laugh rising into his voice. "I am always on your side, love."

Regina studies him. She's known Robin Locksley for nearly a decade at this point, and she knows him better than anyone. And she can tell that he's uncomfortable with the plan—a plan that he set into motion.

"You don't have to be there," she tells him, her shoulders squaring. "It's not like you have to witness—"

His brow cocks. "You know it's all anyone's going to talk about for months."

"Sure, but Graham will be back in Utah by then."

"You assume."

"Why would he stay?"

Robin holds up the envelope. "The blonde in the negligee."

Her shoulders stiffen. "I don't care about her."

"He does."

Regina scowls, crossing her arms over her chest. "It's one night. They'll survive it, and like I said, you don't have to come."

Robin's eyes roll as he takes a step toward her and presses a quick kiss to her cheek. "Of course I do. Whose shoulder are you going to cry on if I don't?" He pulls back and offers a smile—the sort of smile that makes her feel guilty. "Listen, I've got to go. Maybe consider just… privately asking for a divorce, hm?"

"Should I lie to you and say that I will?"

Again, his eyes roll. "Yes."

"Then I promise to consider it."

A wry little laugh escapes him as he tosses the envelope down onto her desk before he leaves her alone in her office—and despite every intention of not considering his request, she, nonetheless, finds herself doing exactly that.

The photograph should have been enough.

The proof of her husband's infidelity was right there, in black and white.

And yet she could already hear the click of her mother's tongue and she could see her eyes narrowing critically as she reminded her that infidelity was just a part of marriage—Regina, of all people, should know that.

Pushing her mother's voice out of her head, she reached for her cup of coffee and took a long sip, letting the warm liquid soothe her as it went down.

Taking a breath, she reaches into her desk drawer and pulls out a stamp, quickly licking the back and positioning it in the corner of the envelope—and then, before Robin's voice could replace her mothers, she swiveled around to her typewriter and punched out a self-addressed label to adhere.

Without giving it too much though, she affixed the label and looked down at it, then tucked it away in her bag. Her plan would be set into motion on her way home, and soon she'd be free.

* * *

Mallory Nolan was well aware that there was no logical reason that quick little exchange outside of the coffee shop earlier that afternoon should've overtaken the rest of her day, and yet, here she was, unable to think of little more than the intensity in her eyes as she spoke and that little jolt she'd felt at their all-too-brief contact. But long ago she'd accepted that romantic feelings rarely made any sense at all, and trying to rationalize them simply wasn't worth the effort

Especially when those feelings were of the unrequited variety.

So, she accepted the roller coaster for what it was, holding her breath and bracing herself for the inevitable plummet downward, taking it on faith that she wouldn't crash into the pavement and find herself broken beyond repair.

And for the last several hours, she'd been ignoring the pitfalls, reveling in every small and insignificant detail of the exchange, thinking of her smile and her laugh, wondering what had been the cause of her good mood, and wondering if the next time she sat waiting by the window at the coffee shop _she_ might catch _her_ eye instead of it always being the other way around.

Still, there was a little voice at the back of her head that reminded her of how ridiculous she was being—a voice she was keen to expel. Nonetheless, though, it came roaring back whenever the fantasy went too far, dulling her tingly giddiness and reminding her that to that woman from the coffee shop, she was a complete stranger and even if they did happen to meet, that their small interaction was barely anything at all, certainly nothing that would leave any lasting impression. And even if it did—even if the woman did recognize her the next time they found themselves occupying the same space—there was a near guarantee that any relationship that might develop would be platonic, at best, and practically destined to end in misery.

And yet, she couldn't push it away. She couldn't stop it—and despite every reason that she should find something else to spend her attention on, she didn't want to and without any real desire, any attempt would be moot.

"I saw her today," Mal says as she crosses her legs and presses her palms against the soft quilt that lays over the bed. "Just outside of the coffee shop."

David looks up at her and grins. "Stalker."

"Shut up."

He laughs as he looks at her through the mirror. "So, what happened?"

"She and I bumped into each other. On the sidewalk, just as she was coming in."

"Did you _actually_ speak to this woman?" David turns, feigning stunned excitement. "Were words actually exchanged?"

"Yes," Mal says, her chin tipping upward. "Barely, but—"

"Mal."

With a loud, exaggerated sigh, she falls back on the bed. "It's pathetic, I know."

"Only a little."

"That's not helpful."

"You know what would be helpful," David prods, "Actually having a conversation. Introducing yourself. Figuring out her damn name."

Mal sits up, pouting. "And how exactly would I begin? Hm?" Her brow arches as she looks pointedly at her husband. "Should I confess that I've noticed she grabs coffee at exactly the same time every day or that after seeing her, I spend the rest of the afternoon fantasizing about making out with her?"

"That's one way of doing it," David murmurs as he turns back to the wardrobe, plucking two ties from the rack on the door. "Or, perhaps, you could start with something like…oh, I don't know… hello?" He looks back at her from over his shoulder. "Red or blue? I can't decide."

"Neither."

"Neither?" He looks genuinely surprised. The majority of his ties are red and blue.

"Well, maybe just not that shade of blue."

David looks to the navy blue tie in his left hand, considering it. "Really? You don't think—"

"Well, it isn't me you're trying to impress, but…" She grins as her voice trails off as she looks past David and focuses on the on the ties hanging in the wardrobe. "That cobalt one you have and never wear brings out your eyes better."

"That's a summer tie."

Her eyes roll. "Summer is a state of mind."

"Tell that to your Christmas tree next year."

Mal pouts. Seeing the Christmas decorations come down always makes her a little melancholy and because it'd been an election year, she hadn't been able to properly enjoy them.

"So…not navy? Not even the navy with pinstripes?" She watches as David pulls a tie with thin, barely there white stripes on it from the wardrobe and holds it up for her to see. He looks so hopeful. "I think this one is kind of fun."

"It's boring," Mal tells him, shaking her head. "Unless you _want_ to look like a politician."

"I _am_ a politician, dear."

"Yes, but the point is you _don't_ want to look like one tonight, isn't it? Isn't that the purpose of driving to some little steakhouse in the middle of some little town in Virginia that no one's ever head of for a date?"

Mal's brow arches as she watches David catch on—for someone who has spent his entire adult life hiding in public, he isn't very good at it.

And somehow, he's far better at it than she is.

"Oh. Right. Good point."

"You're welcome."

David turns back to the wardrobe, and she watches as he selects the brighter colored tie—and a grin pulls onto her lips. Sliding off of the bed, she goes to him, gently taking the tie and looping it beneath the crisp white collar of his shirt.

"So, when do I get to meet him?"

"Not yet. It's too soon."

"It's been months, David."

"I know," he says with a playful grin. "But bringing your boyfriend home to meet your wife is a very complicated thing."

She nods. It is. Everything about their life together is complicated. And yet, most of the time, it all seems so simple.

They'd met at a dinner party her parents had hosted while he was running his first state-wide campaign. For as long as she could remember, they were eager and reliable political donors, and he was promising up-and-comer within their preferred party. Her grandparents attended the dinner portion of the evening and spent the night chatting up the hopeful state senator—and by the time the strawberry cheesecake was served, they'd made their decision to both donate generously to his campaign, and then retire home for the evening. She was tasked with fetching her grandfather's checkbook which he still kept in a safe in her father's study.

There, David was supposed to be rehearsing his speech; instead, he was making out with his campaign manager. He'd been a stumbling, red-faced mess—after all, that he night he had everything to both win and lose. But she'd been amused at the discovery. He'd seemed so straight-laced and stuffy.

At first, she suspected their alliance was fueled by his desire to keep her quiet, but instead, they were both rewarded with a friendship that quickly proved beneficial to them both. The more time David spent with her, the more she liked him—and that was evident to her mother. All of the sudden her mother stopped trying to match her up with the sons' of her well-to-do friends, stopped asking when she planned on settling down or making serious choices about her life. And though at some point, it'd become obvious to David that his secrets were safe with her, he enjoyed the validity that she brought to him. No longer did local papers liken him to a little boy who was out of his league running for office, but as a man with good connections and great potential.

He asked her to marry him and she gladly accepted—and for just over a decade, they'd managed to maintain their ruse.

"He does know that I'm not your wife in… well… _that_ sense of the word, doesn't he?"

"He does."

"Good," Mal says as she finishes the Windsor knot and pats his chest. "So, again, when do I get to meet him?"

David offers a sly smile. "I really like this one, Mal. I want to play it just right."

"I'm jealous," she admits, turning away from him and moving back to the bed. "Incredibly so."

It's been a long time since she had someone who made her feel the way that David felt about the new man in his life, and she missed that. Most of the relationships she had were fleeting, no one was ever able to stick around—after all, what really was there to stick around for? But nonetheless, it was always enjoyable while it lasted, and she never parted from her lovers with sour feelings or regret. But still, it always hurt to lose love—and sometimes, unfairly, it hurt to be reminded that others had what she longed for.

"Which reminds me, we were talking about _you_."

"Ah, yes. The unrequited love affair I'm having in my head with the woman at the coffee shop."

"Yes. That." Mal watches as a grin twists onto her husband's lips. "You should introduce yourself to her."

"I doubt she's interested."

"You won't know until you actually speak to her."

Mal nods, grinning back at him a bit wistfully. "But it seems I've already missed my chance, haven't I? I was so caught up in the moment, it didn't even occur to me to introduce myself or find a way to keep it all going."

David eyes her as he puts on his gray suit coat. "As if you don't know exactly where to find her every day at the exact time that she's there." Mal's eyes roll as David's face turns serious. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"Do you really want me to answer that?"

He laughs and shakes his head. "I've got to go, but perhaps consider that instead of pining over this woman, you could talk to her. Who knows," he adds. "Maybe she'll want to be your friend."

"Yes, that's exactly what I want. A friend."

"You've gotta start somewhere."

Her eyes roll. "Speaking of friends—"

"You'll meet him eventually."

"Ask him over for your next date."

"Mal—"

"I just want to be sure he's good enough for you."

"He is," David says, a sly little grin edging over his lips. "He's _very_ good."

Again, her eyes roll. "Maybe you could get him a fake girlfriend who I could entertain while… well… while you're _entertaining_ him."

"I'll ask him."

Mal's brow arches as she laughs. "You're going to ask your boyfriend to find a girlfriend that his boyfriend's wife can play with?"

"Maybe it'll be that pretty, brown-eyed brunette from the coffeeshop." Feigning a pout, Mal swats at him as he makes his way to his dressing table and selects a watch. "Stranger things have happened."

"Stranger things, indeed."

"Don't wait up. It's a long drive," David tells her as he fastens the watch onto his wrist. "Alright, before I go. What do you think?"

"Very dapper. If I liked men, I wouldn't be able to resist you."

"Not too congressman-like?"

"I mean, you're wearing a three-piece suit and a tie, it could go either way." A grin curls onto her lips as she crosses the room toward him. "But no, you don't look like you're about to give a stump speech or something."

He offers her a quick little peck on the cheek and disappears, and as she hears the front door close behind him, a little laugh bubbles out of her. David's always been so adorable when he's in love—a nice counter to his usual seriousness.

She turns off the light and wanders down the hall to her own bedroom, kicking off her shoes on the way to her closet. She's quick to remove her dress and slip, sliding her bra straps down her shoulders before unclasping it with one hand while the other reaches for her warm satin robe.

"Hello, old friend," she purrs as she slips her arms into the sleeves.

Knowing of David's dinner date, she'd made plans of her own—a big bowl of tomato soup and oyster crackers, a full glass of her favorite sauvignon blanc. She has a box of chocolates, she's been saving, and a brand new copy of Radclyffe Hall's _The Well of Loneliness_ which arrived for her in the mail only the day before.

She figured she'd spread out a blanket in front of the fireplace and waste the night away—and truly, that all sounded ideal. Having just come off election season, it'd been far too long since she'd been able to relax—and her cheeks still hurt from months of constant smiling.

Making her way down-stairs to the kitchen, she grabs the book from the foyer and tucks it under her arm, thoughts swirling around her pending dinner and the quick exchange with the brunette outside of the coffeeshop.

It was pathetic, really, how much she thought of her—and even more pathetic that she hadn't mustered the courage to introduce herself. But, truly, she didn't know how—she wasn't used to meeting women in that way, and the thought of that ghastly woman from the Post catching wind that Congressman Nolan's wife enjoyed the occasional dalliance with other ladies was constantly at the back of her mind.

She's quick to push thoughts of her out of her head—and by the time she's finished with her soup and wine, but the time she's stretched out on her blanket with the fire crackling before her, thoughts of Regina Mills and her awful little columns have been eradicated for the evening. They've been replaced by listless thoughts of Mary Llewellyn and her lady love, and imagining another ending for them—an end that naturally stars herself as Stephen and the woman from the coffeeshop as Mary.

It's not lost on her how paltry it all is, but she's also quick to remind herself that it's innocent—and it's not like the woman from the coffeeshop with her deep brown eyes and confident gait will ever know of the not-so-innocent things she finds herself thinking about her.

It's better that way, she decides.

Besides, she's had crushes before, and they've all passed on with time. Soon there would be someone else—and hopefully that someone would be more tangible and more likely to reciprocate, someone who had just as much to gain and lose as she did, and someone she could trust to keep her secrets safe from the likes of Regina Mills.

And until then, the fantasy would be enough.

* * *

Regina's shoulders tense as she hears Graham's key in the lock and she brings her feet up, curling them beneath herself as she reviews her notes on a story she's writing for the Friday edition of the post.

It's not terribly interesting, but it's important—and she wants to ensure she has the details straight in her head. She hates messy journalism—and for her, messy writing isn't an option and unlike many of her male counterparts, she wouldn't be able to easily brush off having to write a correction. For her, there was no room for error—and though what she was working on was relatively dry, it was the serious sort of journalism she relished, the sort of journalism that brought respect.

She hadn't planned on working tonight—truthfully, she isn't sure what she planned. But when she arrived home, Graham wasn't there. Usually on an evening in which she found herself alone, she'd call Robin over and they'd have dinner and some wine, they'd put on some music and play cards. But, of course, he was busy and she didn't have other options—outside of Robin, she didn't really have other friends, and truthfully, work was usually enough for her. But tonight, her head was spinning—spinning with thoughts of Graham and what to do about their newfound situation.

Though, tonight, she isn't sure that Robin would've been the distraction she was looking for or that he'd even entertain the notion of being a distraction—and truly, it wouldn't have mattered what he wanted or was willing to do that night, the voice in her head was simply too loud, too unwilling to cooperate.

For most of her life, the voice in her head belonged to her mother—for better or worse—offering criticism and judgement to every decision she made. She was used to that voice, however, having lived with it for so long, and depending on the situation, she was good at silencing it. Just like she knew how to shut her mother up in person, she knew how to shut up the version that lived in her head. But since starting at the Post, another voice had occupied that space—and that voice was a bit tricker.

The voice belonged to Robin and often, his presence in her headspace was usually welcomed as he proved to be a voice of reason against her mother's voice.

But unlike her mother's voice, Robin's was harder to shut up.

The actual Robin didn't respond well to the silent treatment, and neither did his subconscious counterpart that lived inside of her head. In fact, whenever she tried to silence him, he only got louder. Usually, this meant that he was right about something—and tonight, he was practically screaming at her.

"Oh, hi," Graham says, looking genuinely surprised to see her as he steps into the living room, his brows arching to find her settled on the couch. "I thought you were going to be late at the office tonight."

"I was going to," she murmurs, "But I decided I'd rather work from home. The shoes I wore today were murder on my feet."

"Ah—"

"And how was your day?"

She smiles softly, watching as Graham loosens his tie—he looks unfazed by the question. "Same ole, same ole," he replies in a nearly sing-song voice that grates on her nerves.

After bouncing from job to job, a year ago Graham got a security job at a ritzy DC hotel. It wasn't quite the work he was looking for, but he seemed to enjoy it enough—and given that the hotel accommodated more people on a daily basis than Draper, Utah saw in a year, she was willing to wage it was more exciting than handing out traffic tickets and letting drunkards sleep off their stupid behind bars.

"Y'know," Graham says, dropping himself down into the armchair opposite her. "Something did happen today."

Her brow arches—will he tell her about the blonde and ruin her fun?

He did have a particular penchant for doing exactly that.

"In fact, I wrote it down. Something I overheard today."

Regina watches as Graham pulls a little notepad from the inner pocket of his open jacket—he isn't wearing his wedding ring, she realizes. She doesn't comment on that, though, instead her thoughts wander around what he might've overhead that he wants to share with her. It wasn't lost on her when he got the security job at the hotel the types of people who stay there, and given her line of work, it didn't escape her that her husband could prove useful.

And unbeknownst to him, he might be useful to her tonight in a way he could've never realized—useful in distracting her from the guilt she felt about what she was about to do to him.

"So, uh, I don't know if it's relevant at all—"

"Everything's relevant. It's just the timing that makes it seem like it isn't."

Graham smiles and nods—he's heard her say that before. Professionally, it's a mantra that she lives by and he used to tease her about storing information away like a squirrel getting ready for winter. She never found that to be a particularly endearing comparison, but he did, so she pretended that it was charming.

"This guy was in today," he begins.

Regina sighs. He's literally going to start at the beginning rather than just give her the important bits. But Graham doesn't seem to notice her annoyance, so he just continues, weaving a story about two men who'd been in the hotel's lobby that afternoon. They'd been speaking in hushed whispers and seemed tense—it takes him ten minutes to reveal they'd been on the losing end of a campaign. And it takes him another ten to reveal they worked for the man who'd run against David Nolan, a Connecticut congressman who was known for being as exciting as toast.

She yawns, and Graham doesn't notice that, either.

And then the word affair catches her ear.

Regina looks up sharply—everyone in DC knew that David and his wife Mallory had an ideal marriage. They were one of those happy couples who actually enjoyed the other's company. Mallory Nolan hosted luncheons for the other congressman's wives—and whenever someone new was elected, she made it a point to show his wife around town, pointing out the best restaurants and shops, and taking them around to all of the tourist attractions they'd likely only ever seen on postcards and in textbooks. She was a proud member of the Daughters of the American Revolution, and if there was a charity event, she was there, with her dull husband on her arm.

They split their time between DC and Connecticut and her family came from old money—she'd been groomed to be a congressman's wife, and she fit the role well.

Someone at the Post covered her—and the rest of the wives—and Regina was thankful every day that it wasn't her. As the only woman on staff, it was truly stunning that it wasn't her.

"Wait. Hold on. Which one?"

"Which one what?"

Regina shifts her notes off of her lap impatiently. "Which one is allegedly having the affair?"

"Him."

"David Nolan is cheating on his wife?"

"These guys seemed to think so?"

Regina blinks—and a smile edges over her lip, a soft laugh escaping her.

The irony of the conversation isn't lost on her—Graham, her unfaithful husband, pointing out another man's affair—but she doesn't care. This is as interested as she's been in Graham in a long time.

"Why didn't that come out, though? During the campaign?"

Graham shrugs.

"That's the sort of thing that would ruin a man like David Nolan."

"Guess the guy he was running against didn't want to win that way."

Regina's brow cocks. The man who'd run against Nolan didn't see them type to hold back. He'd wanted desperately to win and he'd really seemed to think that he would—after all, why else plan a victory speech just outside of the Capitol rather than in your home district? It was bold and pompous—and devised by someone whose ambitions easily bested him. He wouldn't be put off by ruining his opponent's reputation. "Or they found out about it too late."

Again, Graham shrugs his shoulders.

"Any clue who he's supposedly having an affair with?"

"They didn't mention that."

"Interesting."

It was interesting—but it wasn't particularly useful to her. At least not yet.

As dull as David Nolan was, he was good at his job—liked on both sides of the aisle, relatively effective in terms of passing legislation, and young enough to see the bigger picture. And the people in his district seemed to like him—well, at least more than the opportunist he'd run against.

"One of them said something about a twin."

Regina's brow arches as he looks to Graham. "What?"

"Like maybe it was his twin."

Regina blinks—she'd forgotten that part. David Nolan did have a brother, though, for the life of her, she couldn't remember his name. She only knew it because the brother had a penchant for getting himself into trouble—and of course, David won a lot of praise for refusing to use his own connections to get him out of said trouble at the beginning of his career.

To her, though, it seemed incredibly unlikely that David's brother's misdeeds and less-than-pristine reputation would cost him much of anything—and David's brother was free to romp around with whomever he pleased. David's brother wasn't a congressman. Graham seemed to buy it, and she only half paid attention as he convinced himself that that's what he'd overheard.

What Graham heard and anything he might choose to read into it didn't really matter, though, and as he rambled on, his musings of the alleged affair weren't lost on her. She wondered if this was some sort of payment or if he saw it as retribution. Maybe he was guilty about the blonde, or maybe the two things weren't at all connected.

In the end, that didn't matter.

In just under two weeks she was hosting a dinner party—her parents would be there, so would many of Washington's elites—and an envelope was going to arrive for her. It would mark the beginning of the end of her marriage to Graham Humbert.

It was appropriate, she thought, that it was all ending much in the same way that it'd begun—Graham giving her dirt on a congressman and her pretending to care about more than the information he had to offer. Bookends, ending exactly as it began.

Again, her thoughts began to wander, away from Graham and back to what he'd overheard—perhaps David and Mallory Nolan had earned themselves an invite to the party? After all, they might prove to be far more interesting than they appeared.


End file.
